Hear the beloved country
18 June 2020 03:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
igenlodeI was listening to one of those generic CD sets that purports to present an easy-listening selection to represent all the parts of the world -- 'the sound of Africa', 'the sound of Arabia', 'the sound of India', the sound of Australia', etc -- the sort of thing that nobody would ever have any serious listening use for save as a background soundtrack, and happened to have picked the Africa disc as probably more accessible than than Asian music. And as a lead-in and tailpiece track, someone had assembled what was evidently supposed to be a soundscape of the idea of Africa: tomtoms beating, wild animal calls, the pounding of tropical rain, lions roaring and exotic bird cries.
That was months ago now, but it occurred to me to wonder what sort of soundscape I would pick to represent my own country, and I keep assembling ideas. What are the sounds of England for me?
Water. You need water -- not rain, unless it's the spatter of rain against window-glass, for English rain isn't loud or intrusive, and it doesn't drum on parched dry earth. But there would have to be the sounds of the sea: the rattle and suck of pebbles drawing back in the undertow, the long hiss of waves running in across sand, the pounding of winter waves against the breakwater. And of fresh water: the chuckle of a busy stream running swiftly down and the trickle of water into a still pool.
The sounds of animals heard faintly across the fields, not wild animals, but the familiar domesticated echoes of the countryside -- the shrill bleat of a lamb and the call of its mother, the distant lowing of a cow, the indignant quacking of ducks. And birdsong -- not all of them, but a few that stand for memories. The chatter of a hedge full of sparrows; the blackbird, full and sweet and more melodious than the nightingale; the echoing cries of crows, the piercing voices of swifts and the far-off summer ascent of the lark, circling in a tumble of piping notes. Grasshoppers in long grass. A dog barking in the distance, excited.
The sound of the wind in the trees in an autumn gale, and the soft stirring of the branches in summer. The endless dry hiss of the reeds.
That was months ago now, but it occurred to me to wonder what sort of soundscape I would pick to represent my own country, and I keep assembling ideas. What are the sounds of England for me?
Water. You need water -- not rain, unless it's the spatter of rain against window-glass, for English rain isn't loud or intrusive, and it doesn't drum on parched dry earth. But there would have to be the sounds of the sea: the rattle and suck of pebbles drawing back in the undertow, the long hiss of waves running in across sand, the pounding of winter waves against the breakwater. And of fresh water: the chuckle of a busy stream running swiftly down and the trickle of water into a still pool.
The sounds of animals heard faintly across the fields, not wild animals, but the familiar domesticated echoes of the countryside -- the shrill bleat of a lamb and the call of its mother, the distant lowing of a cow, the indignant quacking of ducks. And birdsong -- not all of them, but a few that stand for memories. The chatter of a hedge full of sparrows; the blackbird, full and sweet and more melodious than the nightingale; the echoing cries of crows, the piercing voices of swifts and the far-off summer ascent of the lark, circling in a tumble of piping notes. Grasshoppers in long grass. A dog barking in the distance, excited.
The sound of the wind in the trees in an autumn gale, and the soft stirring of the branches in summer. The endless dry hiss of the reeds.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-19 02:04 am (UTC)The steady drumbeat of rain. Water rushing over falls and rapids. Wind whistling through the trees. Bird calls, a few of them sweet, most of them loud and shrill--everyone has an opinion, everyone has something to say. Dogs barking and howling, warning off intruders. Crickets chirping and bonfires crackling on summer nights.
Not as nice as yours, I fear. But that was fun.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-25 10:00 am (UTC)(Crickets and fireflies at night are one of the things that always mark out an American author unthinkingly using an English setting; we just don't have them, any more than we have bluebirds [spoiler alert: the (US-penned) wartime hit "There'll be Blue Birds Over the White Cliffs of Dover" indicates a happy future a little more fantastical than the writers probably intended!] Our grasshoppers sing in hot sunshine, and our glow-worms are poor little rare creatures that crawl around at ground level eating slugs and snails, rather than flying in dancing hordes on summer nights.)